


Be Still

by ForReasonsUnknown (orphan_account)



Series: Of Spitfires & Love Songs. [4]
Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Angst, M/M, Mentions of Smut, PTSD, Post-Film, Post-WW2, Some fluff in there?, Somehow, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 08:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12552880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ForReasonsUnknown
Summary: There's fire behind Farrier's eyelids when he wakes, the smell of jet fuel making him choke and a bone chilling scream in his ear.





	Be Still

**Author's Note:**

> This didn't turn out entirely how I expected it to, but I love this song so much so may base another work off of this. Kudos and comments (especially constructive criticisms) are welcomed and appreciated! Enjoy x

_And when you come back,_

_Tell me what did you see?_

_Was there something out there for me?_

 

There's fire behind Farrier's eyelids when he wakes, the smell of jet fuel making him choke and a bone chilling scream in his ear. The stains on the ceiling are a somber comfort, their startling dullness clearing the smoke in his lungs. His eyes drift easily to the window, breathing a quiet sigh of relief at the rain spattering against the murky glass. His senses come back to him one by one, his exposed limbs growing cold in the stale air, but the fear of losing all feeling completely stops him from crawling deeper under the blankets. 

Besides, if he moves too much he'll almost certainly wake Collins, and he can't let the blonde see him like this, can't let his pretty eyes go all soft in concern, can't let him see through his stoic facade. He lays still as the adrenaline wears off, heartbeat slowing and the tremor in his hands slowly wearing off, until the only thing he can hear is Collins' soft breathing from beside him, the warmth radiating from his curled up body tantalising to Farrier, whose exposed arms and chest have broken out in goosebumps. 

When the war had ended, he'd expected things to be easier. He'd known that the night terrors would never stop, and that his fingers would always ache from numerous breaks, and that he'd never walk the same way because of a badly healed leg. He'd known that he'd be looked down on by some, he was a prisoner of war who'd sat out most of the war in their eyes. _He hadn't sacrificed as much as they had._ But he'd never expected life to be so much harder, never expected to be shunned by his friends who had survived, never expected to be forced out of London, running away to the country; never expected not to be welcomed home.

He'd never expected to see Collins again either. Not in this lifetime anyways. 

And Collins had welcomed him nonetheless.

Collins though, in Farrier's eyes, has _always_ been _just that_.

_An anomaly._

But the blonde - _impossible_ as he ever had been - had come bursting into his life with that same brilliant smile, the new pink scar on his cheek a painful reminder of all that Farrier had missed, all that he'd failed to protect him from. Collins was respected about the community by the time the war _finally_ ended, and for a while, Farrier could hide behind this, let Collins' charm and wit distract prying eyes. It had caught up with him eventually though. All he'd lost and all he'd become. Farrier had had to talk the blonde down from doing something stupid far more times than either of them would like to admit.  

He can't help but smile softly when Collins shifts, his floppy hair falling over his face, sticking to his forehead. Farrier will run his fingers through it in the morning to coax the blonde back into consciousness, to convince him to crawl out of their safety net and out into their hostile little world.

Collins won't talk about the missions he ran following Dunkirk. He won't tell Farrier where the scars and burns that mar his pale skin came from. He won't tell Farrier what he saw and what he lost out there on his own. And in a way, Farrier doesn't expect him to. Because Farrier _can't_ tell Collins what it felt like to watch his spitfire go up in flames on that damned beach. He can't tell Collins what happened to him after those soldiers came and dragged him away.  He can't tell Collins what he saw in those hellish camps while he _idly waited_ for the war to end. 

_They've both lost four years of their lives, they're not willing to lose any more of them living through them again._

But the urge to ask becomes overpowering sometimes, all the unasked questions building up in his throat and choking him, making his smiles painfully false and his voice falter. And on those days he gets blind drunk, slouching on a stool in the nearest grimy pub until Collins comes and finds him, dragging him out by his collar and driving him home in passive silence. Collins' moral high ground only lasts so long, as he inevitably downs too many glasses of scotch out of scorn and lets Farrier fuck him on the worn sofa. 

Now though, there's only silence; _stillness._  

And the ever-present frown over Collins' forehead is gone, his features calm and blank, as though he's not dreaming of fire and brimstone, as though he won't wake up in a few hours believing it's still 1940 and he's losing Farrier _all over again_. As though he still doesn't dream of drowning in the English Channel, of what might have happened if that boat hadn't arrived when it did. 

Farrier knows that he should sleep, that he's got to be up in a few hours, that he's got to spend the day hauling in storm-ravaged fishing boats at the docks, that when he finally comes home his palms will be blistered and bruised, and Collins will smile at him thinly and bind his hands in bland bandages. _But he can't_. Because as the war becomes a more and more distant memory, the fear that it never ended grows ever stronger. The fear that this is all a dream, that Collins will slip from his grasp again becomes overwhelming. That he'll return to a life of solitude and suffering.

As if on cue, Collins rolls again, warm limbs tangling with Farrier's, face pressing against Farrier's chest. And there it is again: silence, tranquility. Something he didn't experience for five years being shunted around occupied territory. Something he thought he'd never get the chance to experience again. Collins had been a beacon of hope for Farrier during the war, his bright smiles and easy company keeping Farrier going through even the darkest days. The memory of his fingers in his hair and the colour of the blush that spreads across his chest while Farrier fucks him keeping him warm throughout the worst months following Dunkirk. 

Pulling the blonde close, Farrier keeps his eyes locked on the window, watching as the sky grows swollen and purple with morning light, the rain relenting. Every now and again, his eyes drift to Collins' sleeping face, a warm feeling swelling up in his chest at the small smile pulling at his lips. 

Farrier watches the sunrise, and decides that it was worth it.

 


End file.
